A Death-Struck Year (19 page)

I smiled back, relief washing over me in waves. Hannah said my name, and I turned, eyes on the ground, not happy with her at all. Feeling as though she’d played a dirty trick on me. Until she lifted my chin and said, so softly that only I could hear, “There. You see? You think you’re ordinary, but you’re the only one who does.”

Thursday, October 17, 1918
TO
Sunday, October 20, 1918

The days tumbled one into the next. Kate and I traveled over every inch of our city. North and south, east and west. A hundred times we crossed the Willamette. I welcomed the exhaustion brought on by nightfall, for there was little energy left over to think.

One evening I stopped by Margaret’s house. A masked housemaid I did not recognize told me that the Keseys were not accepting visitors. When I inquired if the family was well, I was told they were “well enough” and asked to please be on my way. I left, thinking of how much had changed in a few short weeks. Margaret and I had been friends since we were five. I had always been welcome in her home. Until today.

There was no word from my brother. There was no news from Hood River.

We heard rumors of a vaccine, of trains heading our way with some sort of miraculous cure. But as far as I could tell, that was all it was. Talk and hearsay. Meanwhile, the patient count ticked steadily upward, an average of two hundred new cases a day.

I stopped reading the newspaper when I began to recognize some of the names printed on the death lists. Meg Bailey, the counter girl at the Royal Bakery, who always remembered I liked my tuna salad on pumpernickel, along with a macaroon and a glass of lemonade. Mr. Pressman, the florist, who was never without a smile on his face and a red carnation in his lapel. Marcus Ohle, my schoolmate Louisa’s older brother. The last time I’d seen Marcus was in August, playing tennis, looking so handsome in his duck pants and straw hat.

And then there was Jamison Jones, whom I’d never even had a chance to speak to. He passed on early one morning, two hours after his mother.

When I was seven, I followed a stray kitten across the street and into the shrubbery by the Pikes’ back veranda. It was a rare dry, beautiful spring day. The daffodils and tulips were just emerging after a long, wet winter. I could see Mrs. Pike through a gap in the rhododendrons, enjoying tea and cakes with several women.

They did not see me.

At dinner that evening, I asked Lucy what the word
syphilis
meant. Lucy’s eyes rounded. Her soupspoon hung suspended in midair. Her mouth gaped in a rare display of gracelessness.

Jack also stopped eating. His expression, however, was calm. “Why do you ask, Cleo?”

I lifted my shoulders. “I heard Mrs. Pike tell her friends that she wouldn’t be surprised if Jackson Berry has syphilis on account of his wild university days, and is it any wonder his sad little wife is barren.”

I heard Lucy’s sharp intake of breath, saw her eyes fill with tears. I stared at her, bewildered. What had I done?

Jack looked thunderous. “I’m going to smother that woman!” Throwing his napkin on the table, he shoved his chair back and stood.

Lucy held up one hand and shook her head. “No, Jackson, please.” They exchanged a look before my brother dropped into his chair, scowling. His fists were clenched on either side of his plate.

My eyes darted back and forth between them. “What did I say? I’m sorry, Lucy.”

Lucy turned to me, smiling gently. “Come here, darling.” She slid her chair back.

I wrapped my arms around her, felt her chin rest on my head.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Cleo,” Lucy said. She took a deep breath. “Syphilis is a terrible sickness a man can get when he’s had too many sweethearts.” Jack snorted. Lucy ignored him and continued. “Jackson does not have syphilis, darling. And barren means a woman is not able to bear a child. What Mrs. Pike said
is
true, though it was unkindly put.”

I pictured Mrs. Pike sitting on her porch, teacup in hand, laughing at my family. My hands balled into fists.

From that day on, I followed Lucy’s example, treating Mrs. Pike with a polite indifference that was as cold as a winter dip in the Pacific. Jack didn’t bother with civility. Each time we crossed paths with Mrs. Pike, my brother blasted her with such a nasty look, I once saw her take a step back.

Still, I took no pleasure in seeing her now, thrashing about on a stretcher. Two men maneuvered her into the waiting ambulance. I glimpsed long, fair hair crusted with filth and a face as pale as the moon before the doors slammed shut.

I ran toward the front of the ambulance. “Mr. Briggs!” I called.

The driver was getting ready to close his own door. He stopped when he heard me.

“That you, Cleo?” A pencil was lodged above each ear. I had seen him just that morning, enjoying a cup of coffee in the Auditorium kitchen.

“Yes, sir.” I gripped the door with one hand.

He scratched his beard. “It’s getting close to dark. Hannah have you working the hill?”

“No, sir. I live here.” I pointed at my house. “Please, what happened?” I could see other neighbors, Judge and Mrs. Whelan, old Mr. Hewitt, watching from their porches. No one approached.

Mr. Briggs glanced toward the Pikes’ handsome Victorian. “We got a call from a man named Pike, saying his wife had the influenza. Told us to drive to this address and go straight on in without knocking. So we did. Found the poor lady upstairs in the hall. Looked like she was possessed by the devil.”

My hand flew to my throat. “What about Mr. Pike?”

Mr. Briggs shrugged. “Gone. Told the telephone operator he could be reached at the Portland Hotel if there was news.”

I was dumbfounded. “He . . . he called for an ambulance, and then
left her here?
”

“Happens all the time.” But his sour expression suggested that he did not think much of Sterling Pike. “People scared of their own family.” Two loud thumps sounded from the back of the truck. They needed to go. I moved to the curb. Mr. Briggs closed his door and started the truck. “Still, it’s a helluva thing,” he said, leaning out the window so his words could be heard over the engine. “All that money, and there’s not a soul willing to care for you when you need it.”

For the first time ever, my school gates were closed to me. I peered through a gap in the wrought iron at St. Helen’s Hall, waiting for someone to notice me. Waiting for someone to come out. Because I could not go in.

Ten minutes later, the main doors opened. Miss Elliot crossed the lawn at a fast clip. She wore a black coat and no hat. The wind pulled white tendrils from her bun. An umbrella doubled as a walking stick. It was unsettling to see my headmistress with a mask. She stopped well short of the gate.

She stared at me for a long time, not saying a word. She looked at my armband. At the dusty car parked behind me. She scrutinized my face, and I could tell she did not like what she saw. I felt like a completely different person from the girl who had snuck off from school. I knew I looked different too. Thinner, scruffier. Like someone who slept too little and worried too much. I forced myself not to fidget.

Miss Elliot finally spoke. “Twenty years ago, one of my girls joined the circus. She left school at fifteen and married a lion tamer. And now you, apparently, have joined the Red Cross. During an influenza epidemic. I’m not sure which is more disconcerting.”

I released a long, pent-up breath. “I’m sorry for running away, Miss Elliot. I’m sorry for not leaving a note. I didn’t mean for you to worry.”

Miss Elliot raised both eyebrows. “Well, I’m sure we’ll address that specific incident when the dust has settled. But I think we have more pressing concerns. What are you doing here, Cleo? I spoke with your brother. He said you would be staying with family friends.”

“There was a change of plans.” I told her everything. When I finished, I felt a whole lot better and Miss Elliot looked a whole lot worse.

The wind picked up. I pulled my scarf higher, covering my chin. “I wanted to come by and see how you were. The newspaper didn’t have anything useful. Is everyone all right?”

“Our quarantine isn’t working as well as I’d hoped.”

It was what I’d been afraid of. “How many?” I asked.

“We’ve had four girls fall ill. They’re being kept isolated in the infirmary.”

“Which girls?” It shouldn’t matter. I knew everyone in the school. But I also knew which students had stayed behind, their families too far away to come for them.

“Josie Brandt, Phoebe Duff, Anne Nord.” Miss Elliot hesitated. “And Emily Tobias.”

My shoulders sagged. Emily. I thought of a rag doll with button eyes. “Is it very bad?”

Miss Elliot looked, once again, at my armband. “I think you can imagine,” she said quietly.

“And Emily?”

“Her temperature is one hundred and three. It’s been the same for two days. Miss Jenkins is here, and we’ve hired three private nurses, all highly qualified. We are doing all that we can, Cleo. And we are praying.”

Four nurses for four girls. I thought of Hannah, having to do with so much less. Forcing the thought aside, I said, “Yes, ma’am.”

We spoke for a few more minutes. I promised Miss Elliot I would be careful. And then I climbed in my car and drove off, more troubled than when I’d arrived.

“Do you ever think of walking away? Just leaving this all behind?” I asked.

“Every day,” Edmund said. We were finishing our dinner on the upper balcony. Mr. Lafayette had delivered another basket.

I was surprised by his answer. “Truly?”

Edmund set his napkin on the armrest. “I’d leave through the alley. No one would see me go. I could drive home, pack a bag, my fishing rod, and leave town before Dr. McAbee or Hannah even noticed. Head to the mountains maybe. Or the coast.”

“You’ve planned your escape route?” I asked, nonplussed.

“That’s right.”

“Then why stay?”

Edmund shrugged. “It would be easy enough to leave. But I wouldn’t be able to come home again, would I? Not with my head held up.”

I thought about that.
“Conscientia mille testes,”
I said. Conscience is as good as a thousand witnesses.

Edmund’s eyebrows rose. “I think that’s true. You’re studying Latin?”

“A little. It was on a test.”

He rested his elbows on his knees, watching the patients below. “I was stabbed five times, Cleo. I keep thinking I never should have made it home from France. At the very least, I shouldn’t be able to use this hand.” He was silent for a few moments. “I figure every day I’ve had since then is a windfall.”

“A second chance?” I asked softly.

He glanced over and smiled. “Maybe so. I know it’s going to get worse before it gets better. The smart thing to do would be to run for the hills. But I look at everyone down there, and do you know what I tell myself?”

I shook my head.

“I tell myself they’re alive. I tell myself they’re still breathing. And that means there’s still hope.”

“Hello? Mr. Eba? Mrs. Eba?”

I stood just inside the store, the tinkling of the bell fading above me, and knew instantly that I was alone. A stillness hovered in the air, just beneath a layer of onions and gingersnaps and the merest hint of wet dog.

I’d been on my way home when I saw the lights blazing from the Eba Grocery and Provisions Store. A lucky thing; I was out of cereal, which I planned to eat for both dinner and breakfast. Though Mrs. Foster preferred Butters Grocery near the house, I’d met the Ebas once or twice. They were nice people. And I was lucky to find any store open at this hour. The other businesses on the street—the greengrocer, the fishmonger, the veterinarian clinic—were locked up tight for the night.

But the door had been left ajar. Where was everyone?

I tried again, louder this time. “Hello? Mr. Eba, it’s me. Cleo Berry.”

Nothing.

The store was stocked with goods ranging from jam jars and coffee cans to candles and matches. To my right were tins filled with spices, tea, and California apricots. A barrel overflowed with peanuts, and, on the floor, open crates displayed green beans, onions, and potatoes. I looked at the counter, where a scale dominated the space beside a telephone. The shelves behind the counter were empty. All of them. Cleared right off. Standing on tiptoe, I looked over the counter, half expecting to see one of the Ebas collapsed on the floorboards. I saw nothing except a few cans of tomato sauce lying on their side.

I hurried toward the back. Above my head, garlic clusters trailed from a wooden pole. I found a tiny office and an even tinier bathroom. Both rooms were empty. Maybe there had been an emergency—no great surprise—and someone had simply forgotten to lock up. It was understandable. I’d done it myself.

I opened the back door and let myself out into the windy night. Three trash barrels and a delivery truck crowded the alley. Just to be sure, I checked the truck. Empty.

I’d left the back door open. When the bell sounded from the store, I was relieved. The Ebas must have just stepped out. I was growing too panicky, sensing disaster around every corner, working myself up for nothing. I retraced my steps and was almost inside when I heard unfamiliar voices. Two women.

“The spices first. Then the coffee. Quickly, girl!”

“But what if someone happens by, Mrs. Lily?” The second voice was high-pitched. Younger and frightened. “They’ll throw us in jail for sure! I don’t think it’s right, stealing from the sick.”

I froze.

“No one will happen by,” Mrs. Lily snapped. “The entire family’s been shipped off to St. Vincent’s. And I’m not paying you wages to think, Delilah. Now, lift your feet!”

I crept toward the door and peeked in.

Two women ransacked the store. One in her twenties, the other middle-aged. Both were dressed in dark coats and hats. The older lady was round as a snowman, with pursed lips and a sour expression. Mrs. Lily, I presumed. As I gaped, she lifted a thick arm and cleared an entire shelf of coffee cans into a waiting wheelbarrow. Delilah was scrawny and had the look of a browbeaten servant about her. She jumped at the sound of the coffee falling into the barrel, nearly dropping an armful of spice tins.